


The Land of Eternal Autumn by kalypso

by kalypsobean



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-02-14
Updated: 2014-02-02
Packaged: 2018-01-10 22:27:45
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 3
Words: 1,287
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1165307
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kalypsobean/pseuds/kalypsobean
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>How do you leave the only home you've ever known?</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Imladris

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Angelstar3999 as part of My Slashy Valentine 2011

Melpomaen stands on the balcony overlooking the private gardens; they haven't been tended for a while now, and he strips away the overgrowth in his mind, remembering how they looked in sunlight with the flowers blooming and Elrond cutting his herbs in the far corner.

There is a cool wind blowing that lifts his hair from his shoulders, briefly, and he shivers. He remembers when he never felt the chill of an approaching winter, or needed to wear the thick velvet hooded robes that lie on his bed as protection from elements that he has never seen. That time seems so distant now, remote and aloof from the sadness that seems to choke even the air and hide the sun. He is breathless, and the room seems to spin unevenly; he puts a hand on the wooden rail to steady himself and pulls it back almost instantly. He doesn't notice the blood at first, just a kind of stinging sensation that must be pain and the slamming of wood on wood as the door is flung open behind him. He must have cried out, loud enough to be heard though there is less bustle now that so many have left.

He knows it is Glorfindel who has come, because of blond hair that hangs over his shoulder and the worn gauntlets on the arms that wrap around his chest and guide him inside, away from the balcony and the green stinging creeper that twists around the arches there. He briefly closes his eyes and lets himself relax; it is safe now, and warm.  

Elrond's entrance is quieter, later; the door closes against candlelight and the room becomes shadowy and cast in the blue of moonlight. Melpomaen smiles; he is half-asleep and restive, but he lifts his injured hand for Elrond to inspect and gently brush with dry lips. It is nearly healed, but he likes that Elrond cares enough to check, even now. He waits, but Elrond doesn't lie with them; there's whispers he doesn't understand, and then he's left alone.

The sun rises long after he's finished the last of his packing; he can feel the cold air on his skin and he wonders if it will snow here when he's gone.


	2. Mithlond

It is lonely here; he wishes he could farspeak, just this once, but he never needed to learn. Now that he's near the sea he can hear it whispering to him, even when it's hidden from his view by stone walls higher than he's ever climbed. It distracts him sometimes, but it's comforting; always there in the same way Glorfindel was in the armoury and Elrond was in the Hall of Fire, reliable and steady. He trusts it to take him where he needs to go, even though the grey ship in the harbour looks barely strong enough to survive the journey.

The water can't hold him when he's lying alone at night, though, or braid his hair or put a hand on his shoulder when there are so many things demanding his attention that he can't focus on just one. Círdan always has a kind word for him, and someone always needs his help, but it's not the same.

Sometimes, though, when he can't breathe for the ache of missing what should be there, and the strangeness of a new city threatens to overwhelm him, he locks himself in his room and touches himself, the way Glorfindel showed him, with one hand sliding down his shaft and the other teasing at his backside as if we're both there with you until he comes. It isn't enough, but for as long as it takes he feels like he's home, safe, and it's an honour that he was trusted to come here alone and to be the first to cross to the West, and not the most terrifying thing they ever asked him to do.


	3. Tirion

He doesn't go to Alqualondë with the others; he wants to, and the urge is like an ache inside his chest, but he doesn't trust anyone else to have the feast ready in time and rooms prepared with fires in each hearth. Everything has to be perfect, not because Elrond will expect it, but because he wants to show off what he's done; he has only a skeleton staff made up from those who sailed with him and those who came before, and the assistance of the Lady herself, whom he barely remembered but has learned to respect, and this is what he has created. The halls eastern outskirts of Tirion were built before he arrived, and he's left room for the last of the hangings and ornaments from Imladris still to come, but the rooms feel close and welcoming and though it's not the same, it could be home.

It will never feel the same; he misses seeing leaves the colour of fire and earth, and needing to sweep them outside after a windy day. The sky here is always blue and the breeze is warm, and he's forgotten what it's like to come inside from the rain. The strange emptiness in his heart is lessening, though, and he's grateful for that; he has shut himself away and cried, when it hurt too much to hide.

It's late when the first of the horses arrive at the stables; Melpomaen is watching from the back of the feasting hall, and he can see outside through a gap the drapes over the arched windows that he didn't plan but is grateful for. There is not much for him to see; but he stands straighter when he sees Asfaloth, knowing him by the gold threads twisted into the bridle and the Elf holding the lead. Glorfindel leans his head on Asfaloth's nose in farewell and then looks up; it feels like Glorfindel has sensed him, somehow, though there isn't any moment of recognition or greeting.

He ignores the growing noise of entering Elves and watches until Glorfindel disappears from view.

It is difficult not to be impatient; he gives the order for food to be brought out and permission for the kitchen staff to join the feast when the tables are laid, but doesn't join them in mingling. There is joy enough in watching loved ones reunited from his vantage, and no need for him to interfere in their reunions. Many of them have waited longer than the three years that he has spent in preparing for today, and he chooses to ignore the gnawing of jealousy at his heart in favour of seeing the delight his work brings to the new arrivals, who openly revel in the familiarity and comfort when they expected the unknown.

He is unsurprised when Glorfindel enters alone and without drawing attention; he is now but one of many Elflords, and not so obvious amongst the crowd. Melpomaen, however, finds he cannot look away as Glorfindel politely avoids being drawn into welcoming conversations and strides towards him.

He remembers this; feeling safe and small, with his head on Glorfindel's shoulder and his hands balled into fists that tug loosely at the silky tunic that slides over his skin and makes him wish it was touching more than his hands and wrists and cheek. Like his mind had been playing tricks on him, it is better for being here, where the words I'm proud of you mean something when they're whispered against his ear. He sees Elrond then, to, and he inclines his head from across the room; his eyes are filled with a dark promise that makes Melpomaen feel content even as he tilts his head back to let Glorfindel kiss away the joy that threatens to burst uncontrolled from his heart if not given an outlet.


End file.
